Room of Angel
by Xalogel
Summary: He spoke one last word of truth, before treading upon a road full of lies. Spy-family-centric


**Room of Angel**

The body fell with a thud to the polished wood, the aromatic red seeping through the floorboards. Kneeling, he brushed aside fair blonde locks that had fallen into dark blue eyes that mirrored his own. The blood had gotten onto her beautiful hair, a pity that she should have to rest upon a bed of stained yellow. He should have been more careful.

More precise.

Reaching for a rose from the bouquet in his hands he pressed it into her hands, hands that had held him as a baby, hands that had held his hand as they ran around in the orchard. The thorns punctured the skin that now ceased to bleed life.

He stood then, eyes still transfixed upon the lifeless body, a little disorientated. Tearing his eyes away he turned to look about the house.

Neat. The furniture always had that gleam of varnish, and there were always fresh flowers upon the table. His father had always been very particular about the spruceness of the home decor. He wouldn't be happy about the blood he had gotten on the floor.

"_Sloppy work._"

He hadn't heard the man come down the stairs, even though the old wood should have groaned beneath his feet. But that was his father, and he had been the greatest in his line of work.

"Je suis désolé." He apologized, head bowed. Felt a hand upon his head and looked up at the face of his father, ripened with age.

"You will learn, at zhe academy. Throw that dirty thing away."

His father gestured at the knife in his hand. Loosening his grip upon the handle he let it drop to the ground. No longer had it left his hand he felt his fingers wrapped around another handle. Heavier, the sides engraved with vines and roses, their family name hidden within the thicket of thorns. He had seen this before. His father's weapon.

"It has seen us through many generations." Explained his father. "Our family name lives on as long as rubies fill the rivers along its blade."

"Oui."

They stood there for a while, he staring at his feet as if he didn't know what to do, though he really did. His father, waiting.

"Make haste." Came the order. "She waits for you," He said, glancing up the stairs and staring, as if he could see beyond the walls. "elle est belle."

The blade sliced cleanly, the spray of blood marking the walls in a strange psychedelic swirl. His father collapsed against the railing of the stairs, a grin upon his face. He recognized that grin; he'd seen it often in the photos, in the mirrors, in his reflection. People had said it was what made him resemble the man the most.

Another rose for another lifeless body.

A rose for the gardener. A rose for the maid. A rose for the butler. A rose for the sister. A rose for the father. The bouquet he once held had slowly regressed into but a single rose, the darkest and most exuberant.

A hand on the railing he made his ascent towards the upper level of the house. The stairs creaked no matter how light he tried to make each step. No, he was not his father yet. But he would be. Soon. Just one more to go, and he would have nothing to hold him back anymore.

He passed his sister's room, and his own. It had already been cleared out, with nothing but the empty desk and sheetless bed remaining behind. He walked further down the corridor, unconsciously setting crooked photo frames straight again.

Stopped at the very end, where a large door stood. Lifted his hand and gave the door a knock before stepping inside.

The window was open, curtains dancing gently in the breeze. She sat there on the window sill, the silk of her white wedding gown hiding the floor like a large quiet lake that had frozen in the winter.

"Madre." He called and she turned beckoning with a hand.

"Come, mon fils." Even after all these years of speaking the language her French was still laden heavily with the accent of her ethnic standing.

Even after all these years she seemed scarcely unaffected by time, an image of a seasoned lady she was. Her dark hair combed to rest upon her right shoulder, green eyes smiling up at him through a white veil.

"For you." He set the last rose into her hair, by her ear, lifting the veil as he did so. Those green eyes drew him in like a whirlpool, dripping with emotion.

Seeping life from around her.

"Merci. It is beautiful."

"What are you wearing madre?" He asked, the corner of his lips curled up in amusement.

"My wedding dress." She replied, looking out the window. "You were in me, when I stood at the altar with your father," She placed a hand upon her stomach, recalling, "I was wearing this dress."

"Father was right. Tu es tres belle, madre."

"What is this now, are you flirting with me?"

She laughed, and he grinned. She reached up, the lace of her gloves scraping the side of his face.

"Ah yes." She sighed. "Your father's grin."

And then she reached for his tie, which had become loose while he was doing his job.

"Look at you." She reprimanded, "You got blood on your suit. Your father would never." Her actions too fast to anticipate she jerked him down to face her, pulling the tie up so tightly he ceased to breathe for a fluttering second. Her beauty made him forget that she too, was once in the same line of work as his father was.

"Your tie is loose."

"I am sorry," He choked out, after she had let go of him. "madre."

"Have you said goodbye to your sister?"

"Oui. And father as well."

"Ah. I miss him already." A moment of sadness flickered on her face before she returned once again to her bright smile. Always smiling, no one really knew what she was thinking. "Come," She beckoned again, this time baring her fair neck to him. "It is time I go back to him."

"Oui, madre."

"After this," She began, "help no one, understand no one,"

"_love no one._"

He lifted the knife, listening still.

"And you shall be the greatest Spy the world will ever see."

He brought the gleaming blade of steel down across her throat, even as she spoke.

"Like your father."

He watched as she slipped from her perch upon the window, like a fallen angel. Watched as the great expanse of white was dyed the sweetest, darkest red.

Tomorrow the cleaners would come. By then he'd be gone, a person without a family, without people he could be traced to, or threatened with. He was now the perfect material for the academy.

He brushed at the stains on his suit. His father had often told him blood stains could never be washed off. He'd learn. He'd be the best at the academy.

Better than his_ father_.

Closing the door behind him he turned, pressing his forehead against the cool oak of the door.

"_But I will always love you, madre."_

One final word of truth before he set out upon the road of lies.

~*~

You lie silent there before me  
your tears they mean nothing to me  
the wind howling at the window  
the love you never gave  
I give to you

Really don't deserve it  
but now there's nothing you can do  
so sleep in your only memory of me  
my dearest mother

Room of Angel/Akira Yamaoka - Mary Elizebeth McGlynn

~*~

Spies who have no family background whatsoever are highly sought after because they have nothing to lose. This family is one of few which have the tradition of having the chosen successor kill off all family members/servants as an initiation for treading the path of espionage.

Ah yes. I do so love throwing perfectly happy characters into sad crappy stories.

Idk.

Just a piece of crap I wrote while listening to Room of Angel, from SH4. Unlike my fic the song is wonderful: (search Room of Angel on youtube for I am unable to put links here 3)

This is so short. 8C


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